


And let me sleep at night

by seabird



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11219412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabird/pseuds/seabird
Summary: Some bridges may be mended over a few glasses of wine on warm summer nights.How foolish to think it could ever be enough to make up for the oceans dividing the both of them.





	And let me sleep at night

Sometimes, it's just easier to lie to himself. 

Brush aside these swirling whirwinds of emotions - much in the same way he would deal with a bug on his windshield while driving a little too fast down winding roads - than face feelings he tried to bury deep for longer than he'd ever be proud to admit.

The kind which at times warm his heart like the first hint of sunshine warms his skin after days of rain, then suddenly this much more alike the deep undercurrents of a sea at storm. 

Trying to drag him under (and maybe he dreams up a siren's song then, when part of him may wish to just give in more than ever before; right when he's at his lowest and the tiniest sliver of peace seems worth sacrificing all too much, but oh does the rational part of his brain know it would be at too high a cost and so he keeps fighting instead).

Sometimes, it's so easy to try and pretend that there's still forever left; that one day, honesty may be an option where it's not right now.

Lying and pretending, as it turns out, do help little to soften the blow once realization hits that a deadine's been set.   
Tick tock, a fleeting intrusive thought; this childhood memory long since forgotten. 

Time's running out, and all too fast. 

 

The thing is, Geri does not feel guilty about calling it quits. 

As brash a decision as it was, a spur of the moment type thing, he's just had enough. Given enough, endured enough. And he'd be too damned old anyways, so there was that as well. 

Doesn't mean his heart doesn't hurt when his friends try to give comfort. 

Doesn't make it easier to face Sese – Ramos, he's quick to remind himself - , not when his lips are twisted in this nasty almost-smile. Eyes distant in a way that makes him long for the summer past. The sweet warmth of Sese half-jumping, half-hugging him after he scored that goal. The easy way they connected over shared drinks on a warm summer's night even after elimination, soothing their hurts, sharing bits and pieces of themselves way beyond shared memories of glory days. 

 

 

"Sorry I made your life harder, Capi" he all but whispers, then leaves all to damned sudden.

Some bridges may be mended over a few glasses of wine on warm summer nights.

How foolish to think it could ever be enough to make up for the oceans dividing the both of them.

 

During the season to follow, there's almost a karmic joy to it when Sergio gets to ruin what has to be the most important game of the season for Piqué by scoring in the dying minutes. 

Happy enough to provide comfort and encouragement to his teammates, and for a split second Sergio wishes -

it doesn't matter, in the end; and there's laughter in his voice as he calls for Cris to wait for him.

 

 

The send-off happens, and oh. Damn it all to hell, damn Piqué to hell, it's not fucking fair.

 

 

In the end, nothing stops his team from winning the league. 

Later, wrapped in comfortable blankets and dreaming, there will be regret. 

In that moment on the pitch, though, it feels too inviting to not voice, vent all these frustration; almost as good as winning itself does. 

 

 

It's late the evening after, splitting headache soothed, when he notices it.

Just this one word. Congratulations, the caption under a picture of a sunflower. 

And what in the hell is Sergio even supposed to make of that one-

 

 

Sometimes, knowing how damned easy it would be to reach out, to return a sweet gesture.

It's tempting. 

It's also scary a thought, scary a dream. 

To try and make that leap of faith, nothing but hope in your heart that the sea really is as calm as it seems, no undercurrent trying to pull you under; no rocks hidden just beneath the surface just waiting to split open your skin, to tear flesh and bones apart.

 

 

Ninety precious minutes every couple months in which they understand each other wordlessly still, no matter what, almost as if in spite of... oh well.

Everything. The world. Themselves, most of all, maybe.

Shared smiles, shared hugs.

(Like a touch of sunshine to freezing cold skin; like the first breathe of air, gulped in with a mouthful of seawater after almost, damned near drowning)

Sergio treasures them oh so dearly. 

 

 

There's still a little bit of precious time left, to make Geri understand that it's not hate or resentmend he holds in his heart. 

 

 

And then, it all has to go to hell, and fast.

 

 

An eager young striker's foot connecting just the wrong way with Piqué's ankle. Neither intent nor a hint of malice to it; the kid so obviously shaken to the core as he realizes the damage done; clear as day to see in an endless loop of video and close-up pictures in the aftermath.

 

 

The scar on Sese's hand, when asked about it years and years later, is something neither of them will comment on. 

 

The way Piqué can't help but lightly touch the marred patch of skin; the way both their eyes light up, evn if just for a moment-

 

 

Seconds, maybe minutes trickle by, but at one point Sergio does make the connection between the shards of glass on the floor and the sensation in his palm; half numbness, half this funny, too warm sticky sensation of something, and oh damn-

 

For one fleeting moment he considers it, ordering sunflowers.


End file.
